


tired of traitors (they were friends of mine)

by ceserabeau



Series: Sterek AU One shots [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gen, Homeland - Freeform, M/M, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3936328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mind ticks back to Hasan in his Iraqi prison, long fingers clutching at Stiles through the bars, hauling him closer, mouth pressed against his ear: <i>an American prisoner of war has been turned.</i></p><p>Homeland AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	tired of traitors (they were friends of mine)

**Author's Note:**

> Homeland AU where Derek is Brody, Stiles is Carrie, Lydia is Saul, and nobody knows who to trust. Title from _Ladder Song_ by Bright Eyes.

There’s a commotion in the hallway outside the office, and when Stiles sticks his head round the door there’s a stream of people moving down the corridor, talking in hushed excited tones. He grabs Lydia’s arm as she passes.

“Any idea what’s going on?” he asks

She pauses, eyes flicking between Stiles and the crowd. “Something happened,” she says, “In Syria.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, surprised. “Anything I can sit in on?”

She considers him for a moment. “Yeah, come on. Follow me.”

She leads him to one of the briefing rooms on their floor. Inside it’s quiet, crammed with more people than there are chairs to sit on. Deaton is already there at the front of the room; on the screen behind him a video is starting to play.

“Last night, a Delta team moved on an enemy operating base in the Korengal Valley.” Deaton gestures to the screen where men are moving through the compound, taking fire. “They engaged multiple insurgents, killing thirteen before the base was abandoned. On a sweep afterwards, they found a padlocked door in a subterranean room.”

He touches the screen and the volume rises until it echoes loudly in the room. Stiles watches as the soldiers break through the door and into another room, small and dark. The green glow of their lights flicker around, over a cot sitting close to the floor, a sink, a bucket, until they land on a body, curled up on the floor.

The soldiers pull it up: it’s a man, with long hair and a thick beard, bruises around his eyes and along his cheekbone. He’s alive, his mouth moving, gasping, and the camera moves in closer as one of the soldiers shakes him.

“American,” the man is whispering, throaty and broken. “I’m an American.”

There are gasps in the briefing room. Stiles feels his mouth drop open. Next to him, Lydia’s hands clench in the armrests of her chair.

“He’s one of ours,” Deaton tells the room. “Marine Sergeant Derek Hale. Missing since early 2003 and presumed dead – until now.”

Stiles frowns. He remembers this case: two soldiers lost in Iraq, there one minute and gone the next. “What about the other guy?” he pipes up, and every head turns in his direction. “Hale had a partner. Corporal Vernon Boyd. They were both MIA.”

Deaton waves a hand, uninterested. “Boyd was killed in captivity,” he says, and turns to the room. “Now, although Boyd was lost, that shouldn’t dampen the fact that this was a major win for the Agency. Because of all of you, an American hero is coming home.”

The applause that rises is loud, echoing in the small room, but Stiles keeps is hands in his lap. His mind ticks back to Hasan in his Iraqi prison, long fingers clutching at Stiles through the bars, hauling him closer, mouth pressed against his ear: _an American prisoner of war has been turned_.

The crowd is starting to file out, patting each other on the back, smiles on every face. Stiles grabs Lydia before she can leave. “I need to talk to you,” he hisses.

She frowns but lets him tug her back into the empty room. “What?”

Stiles waits until the door clicks shut behind her before speaking. “When I went to see Hasan before he was executed,” he says slowly, “He told me something. He said that an American prisoner of war has been turned.”

Lydia blinks, surprised like Stiles has rarely seen her. “And when he said ‘turned’, he meant –”

“He meant _turned_ ,” Stiles insists. “As in working for Abu Nazir.”

He watches the way her face darkens, brows drawing together as she leans on the back of a chair. “That’s critical information, Stiles! Why am I only just hearing about this now?”

“Because until ten minutes ago I didn't know there were any prisoners of war alive in Iraq or Afghanistan.” He takes a shaky breath.  “This could be it, Lyd. The next major attack on America.”

Lydia’s fingers drum against the chair; Stiles watches the bright flash of her nails against the leather. “If what you’re saying is true, then it means that operation was a set up – that Abu Nazir planted intelligence on his own safehouse so we could recover Sergeant Hale.”

“I know it sounds like a reach.”

She snorts. “To say the least.” She rubs a hand across her face, and in the harsh light she looks old and exhausted. “Why not just drop him near a checkpoint and make it look like he escaped? Why sacrifice thirteen fighters?”

“Because Nazir is playing the long game.” Stiles lays a hand over hers. “This way, no one suspects a thing.”

She shakes him off, starts to pace. “No one except you,” she snaps, obviously trying for angry but it comes out wavering, uncertain.

“No one except us,” Stiles corrects. “If I’m right, Lydia – you know what that means.”

Lydia doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He recognises the look on her face: she’s considering it carefully, looking at it from every angle. Then she nods and straightens.

“Alright,” she says, and moves forward to slip her arm through his. “Let’s get to work.”

**Author's Note:**

> More to come probably.


End file.
